Legacy
by YeahScience
Summary: 7 years after the events of Felina, Jesse is living the American Dream. However, he can't escape the reminders of all the horrors he's been through. And just how long can he keep it all a secret from his wife? Plus, the reappearance of someone very important to Jesse threatens to bring his perfect, fabricated life crashing down.
1. Chapter 1

_The wail of far-off sirens, the taste of salty tears streaming down his face, the rush of adrenaline surging through his body as he grips the steering wheel as hard as his emaciated arms can…_

_Jesse is free._

LEGACY

Jesse wakes with a start, his chest heaving, beads of sweat lining his forehead. He sits up in bed for a few seconds to regain his bearings and to shake away the horrors of the clinging memory. He feels shaky, disconnected. The darkness of his bedroom swims around Jesse, surrounding him like black velvet. He's thankful for the comforting cover of the thick blackness. Looking over at the clock, he sees it reads 5:00. _Too late to go back to sleep_, Jesse thinks. _Might as well get up_.

Jesse swings his legs over the side of the bed, pausing to take a deep breath. He is about to stand up when the woman who was sleeping next to him stirs. She shifts and gives a little groan.

"What time is it?" she mumbles, her voice groggy with sleep. Jesse reaches over to brush her bangs out of her face. For a moment, a smile flickers across his lips. There is a pang in his chest as he is reminded of Jane, and the smile is gone.

"It's five, honey," Jesse whispers. "Go back to sleep." With that, Jesse stands and trudges out of the room. Carefully and silently closing the bedroom door behind him, he slowly steps down the staircase. He walks by a series of pictures with him and the woman: dates, their engagement, buying their house, their wedding. _My whole life, played out in front of me,_ Jesse thinks. A wave of guilt strikes his heart as he remembers his previous life. _That doesn't matter anymore. Phoebe doesn't know, and she won't ever find out._ But how long could Jesse keep his terrible past a secret?

The house is silent, aside from the soft padding of Jesse's feet on the hardwood floor. Outside, a few notes of birdsong pierce the thin, early morning air. A few strands of sunrise streak across the walls, tinting the wall bright orange. Everything else is washed in a deep blue color. Everything seems to be standing still, like the Earth is holding its breath.

Suddenly, a shadow flashes across the light streaking through the family room. Jesse turns fast as a whip, his senses sharpened from the months he spent as a meth-slave. Heart pounding, Jesse shoots to the window to interpret the threat. His heartbeat is in his throat now, fingers jittering, ready to defend Phoebe and himself. Then, out of the corner of his eye, the shadow again. Jesse feels his face redden as he realizes what this "threat" was: a goldfinch. He wipes his forehead and continues to the kitchen. _God, I could sure use some coffee._

It isn't long before the rich, earthy scent of strong coffee is floating through the kitchen. Jesse inhales deeply and bends down over the counter, resting his head on his arms. Waiting for his coffee to finish brewing, he runs his hands under the faucet and splashes icy water on his face. It feels amazing. Leaning over the sink, Jesse stares out the window at the quiet street. _I must be the only one awake. _There was no activity out there. _In a city like St. Louis, there's always gotta be _something_ going on._

The coffee pot beeps, prompting Jesse to pour himself a large, steaming mug. The drink courses through him, filling Jesse with a newfound energy, surging through his veins and out of his fingertips. He feels rejuvenated, powerful, almost like… like...

_NO_. Jesse slams his mug down forcefully, ending the reminiscence before it could continue, then feels embarrassed at the idea of having woken up his wife. Jesse has a new life, new family, everything that happened before then is history. _I shouldn't even be thinking about it anymore._ A lump catches in his throat as Jesse remembers Jane, Andrea, Brock, hell, even Wendy. What ever happened to Brock. Jesse shakes his head. _Doesn't matter._ Brock's got a new life now, too.

The clock on the stove now reads 5:17. _Phoebe will be getting up soon. I should make her breakfast._ Jesse opens the fridge, recoiling at the blast of cold air, and takes out eggs, milk, and butter. Unbeknownst to everyone he knew, Jesse has always been a natural cook. He lets the irony of that statement sink in, before clearing his throat and getting the Bisquick out of the pantry. Then a true smile appears on his face; _Phoebe, the smartest woman I know, who deserves the best of everything, loves crappy box mix pancakes. _He shrugs this off and prepares the recipe he memorized as a teenager.

The pancakes are sizzling in the pan by 5:30, when a raucous alarm clock sounds upstairs and, moments later, Phoebe strides lightly down the stairs. Her hair is tangled and there is a little smudged makeup under her left eye. But to Jesse, she looks as beautiful as the day he married her.

"Oh, sweetie," she gasps. "You didn't have to make breakfast!" She bounces over to Jesse and moves to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. As she leans into him, though, Jesse turns his head to give Phoebe a powerful, amorous kiss. She is taken by surprise, but throws her arms around him anyway. "Easy, tiger," she says flirtatiously. "Our anniversary was last month." She walks to the counter, and takes a seat as Jesse fetches syrup and pours her coffee just the way she likes it: black, 3 teaspoons of sugar.

"You have a bad dream last night?" she asks around a mouthful of pancakes. "You were tossing and turning a lot."

Jesse stares right into her deep, hazel eyes. He feels like there is a hole opening up in his chest as he says, "No, not that I can recall." He kicks himself for lying to Phoebe. _She doesn't deserve to be lied to._

She seems to buy it, though, and continues to make conversation. "This is so nice that you did all this, really. Who doesn't love hot pancakes and hot coffee ready for them in the morning?"

"Hey, how about hot husband?" Jesse jokes. Phoebe produces a wide-mouthed smile and lightly punches Jesse on the arm. She giggles and reaches over to sneak a piece of Jesse's pancake.

"That's what you get for that, mister!" Now they're both giggling. Ah, the joys of married life. _Do we still count as newlyweds? It's been a year,_ Jesse wonders. _Yeah, a year and you still haven't told her anything, _Jesse's conscience reminds him. Phoebe had been told absolutely nothing about Jesse's former life, not his drug use, his murders, his slavery. Instead, she had been told the story he fabricated on the bus ride to his new life that Saul's guy had set up for him. Ethan Hawthorne, who knew nothing about his birth parents, had been adopted by a couple here in St. Louis, Mark and Rosemary, who had both died in the car crash that left Ethan with the scars that still faintly lined his face, right before he was going to start college. That's where Ethan's story merged with Jesse's. He used the remaining funds of his hidden cash to go to college, eventually earning his master's in psychology. He got a job as an addiction counselor, met a beautiful woman named Phoebe, and married her. With a huge sum from Phoebe's parents, they bought this amazing house right here in St. Louis. Now here he was, one year later, living the American Dream. _Living a lie._

It all seemed liked such a blur. And it had been. Jesse and Phoebe's love was a whirlwind one, and they were engaged by the time Jesse had even finished college. By then, Phoebe was close to finishing her residency as a pediatric neurosurgeon. They spent nights at restaurants, watching movies at her house, and even going out for donuts one morning after Phoebe's night shift. Time felt so slow when they were together, almost as if their moments were suspended somehow, even though they had only been together for a little over 3 years.

"Earth to Ethan," Phoebe says, abruptly pulling Jesse out of his flashbacks. "I said 'Breakfast was lovely, but I gotta get ready.'" She gives him another quick kiss, then leaves the kitchen and walks back upstairs. Jesse doesn't follow her up the stairs; he does the dishes instead. He doesn't have to be at the clinic until 9:00 and it's only 6:15. The mindless scrubbing of dishes helps clear his mind. Outside the window, their peaceful corner of St. Louis is waking up. Men in boxers drag out garbage cans, women in pajamas walk their dogs down the sidewalk. Such a perfect scene. It almost reminds him of his aunt's neighborhood, back in Albuquerque.

_Domesticity has changed me_, Jesse muses. _To Phoebe, to my neighbors, to everyone, I'm just Ethan Hawthorne. _

He stands in the kitchen, looking out the window, thinking, even though his mind feels empty. Finally, he heads towards the stairs so he can get ready for work. In doing so, he practically runs into Phoebe.

"I'm headed out," she says with a smile.

"Okay, baby. Have a great day," Jesse replies, giving her a hug and a kiss as walks around him and down the stairs. She grabs her purse and her lab coat hanging by the front door. As she shuts it behind her, she calls, "Love you!"

"I love you," Jesse calls back, but he is unsure if she heard him.

He heads upstairs into the bathroom, steps into the shower, and lets the steaming water relax his tense muscles. It washes away his discomfort over his dream last night, leaving him feeling refreshed. He towels off, shaves, brushes his teeth, combs his hair, and before he knows it, he's ready for work. He buttons up his dark purple shirt, grabs his keys and briefcase, and heads out the door.

On his way to work, Jesse listens to Fleetwood Mac. Whenever he hears the song _Don't Stop_, he feels complete, like that was the one song that he was meant to hear in his life. The kicking drums, lively guitar, and overall optimism never cease to bring a smile to his face. Not to mention that it was Jesse and Phoebe's first dance at their wedding. Jesse sings along with the band.

_Don't stop thinking about tomorrow_  
><em>Don't stop, it'll soon be here<em>  
><em>It'll be better than before<em>  
><em>Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone<em>

The last line catches in Jesse's throat. He doesn't have time to reflect on the personal meaning though, because he's at work. New Life Addiction Counselors. _Why does my life have to be filled with these constant reminders of what I've been through? It's like the universe does nothing but make me feel guilty for the mistakes I made 10 years ago! _Jesse picks up his briefcase and locks his car, heading into the building.

The door gives its familiar ding as it opens. Ella, the secretary greets Jesse.

"Morning, Ethan," she says from behind her usual cup of tea. "You're a little early today."

Jesse looks at his watch. _Oh, I am._ "Why not? Got nothing better to do."

"Good thing, though. You've got a 9:00 appointment, a 14-year old boy. New client. Made the appointment last night. Sounds bad." Ella takes a sip of her tea.

"I'll work my magic," Jesse says, tapping his fingers on his desk and continuing to his office. He sets his briefcase on the floor and takes out all the materials he'd need for a new client: pen and paper, release of information contracts, confidentiality forms… After getting everything ready, he looks at the picture on his desk. It's one of him and Phoebe, embracing on the beach on Hawaii, both wearing leis. He's wearing a blue bathing suit, she's wearing a red bikini and a grass skirt. That was their honeymoon, the perfect beach vacation. He remembers it well, also remembering that he wished it could've lasted forever.

The phone rings loudly, rudely tearing Jesse from his memory. Jesse clicks the button to put it on speaker.

"You're 9:00 is here. He's in the room, ready for you," Ella says on the other side of the line.

"Thanks," Jesse says. He gathers his things and heads into his therapy room. Ella must have just lit a candle, because the calming scent of lavender hangs in the air. The walls are a neutral beige, the carpet is soft and springy, and there are scenic nature paintings all over the walls. Seeing nature was something that really helped Jesse when he was in rehab, and he hopes that it helps his patients too.

The boy is standing, back to Jesse, facing a picture of a nighttime scene that hangs on the wall behind the patients' couch. His hair is dark and messy, his body full but not overweight. His skin darker than Jesse's and he has a piercing in his left ear. Jesse also notices a tattoo on the boy's right arm, not unlike his own.

"Hello, my name is Ethan Hawthorne," Jesse introduces himself. _Yet another person I've lied to,_ he thinks. "What's your na-" Jesse is cut off as the boy turns around. The very breath leaves Jesse's body and he wants to scream, to cry, something. There is a deep, deep sadness and horror building up inside him as he realizes who this client is.

Brock.


	2. Chapter 2

The two stand for a few moments, though it feels like hours to Jesse. Brock's expression is incredulous, as though he's staring at a ghost. He very well might be, because all the color has drained from Jesse's face. _No, please no, not Brock._ The boy Jesse remembers was the happy-go-lucky kid he used to play video games with. The very memories wrench Jesse's heart and, for a brief moment, he hears the gunshot that killed Andrea.

Gone is the carefree, 8-year-old Brock. The person standing in front of Jesse is someone entirely different. He is much taller, larger, with muscles that must have been built in street fights. His eyes are sunken, with the hollowness that Jesse remembers all too well from his days in rehab. _What's that on his cheek? Is that a _scar_?_ There is no smile on Brock's face; his jaw is set, and all his perplexity is conveyed through his squinted eyes. _This can't be happening. This can't have happened. Not to Brock. _He was like a son to Jesse, back when he and Andrea were together.

Brock opens his mouth to speak, and fear rises in Jesse's throat over what the boy is going to say. His fears are realized when Brock whispers a single word.

"Jesse…?" He leans forward to examine the strange man before him. To Brock, Jesse must look entirely different. He's got a neatly-trimmed beard, he's dressed like a proper adult... In short, he no longer looks like the stoner he once was. It's almost difficult for Brock to recognize his late mother's ex-boyfriend; but there's no mistaking those bright blue eyes or the tattoo on his right wrist. No, this could only be Jesse Pinkman.

In all the years he's had to act, to lie, to pretend, no moment has been so distressing to Jesse as this one moment. He's fighting back tears as he looks back at Brock. He can't help but feel partially responsible for this. _I should have protected her,_ Jesse wails silently. _So I could save her and Brock._

Jesse can't speak. A whirlwind is raging inside his head. _How do I explain this? It's because of me that his mother's dead! Everyone I've met since the day I escaped has known me as Ethan Hawthorne, and here's someone who knows exactly who I am. And he has no idea why I would have changed my name. There's no way he's going to explain anything I tell him. Is patient confidentiality mutual?_

Finally, the tense, confused silence is broken. "Brock," Jesse breathes. "Is that really you?"

The boy doesn't reply. He stares at the floor, looking ashamed and pitiful. Even though Jesse was like a father to Brock, he doesn't feel any anger over the kid's actions. He only feels grief and guilt. _Is this all my fault?_

Then, the moment of truth. _What do I say? 'I'm sorry, son, you must have me confused with someone else'? Or 'No, my name is Ethan Hawthorne. I'm your counselor'? _No. Neither of those. There is no deceiving Brock.

"Take a seat, Brock," Jesse manages to say. Brock eases himself gently into the couch, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. First-time patients always do that. _He must be nervous._ Jesse is caught so off-guard that he almost forgets the typical assessment for a new client.

"How are you doing today, Brock?" Jesse figures he might as well just say the boy's name. No point in asking, since Brock already recognized him.

Brock ignores Jesse's question and asks the very thing Jesse was fearing.

"Why are you here?" His voice is laced with confusion, and Jesse is paranoid that there is a little suspicion in his tone as well.

"That's not important," Jesse quickly dodges the question, pointing his pen at Brock. Jesse's always been good at thinking on his feet. Well, except for the time he dumped all of his and Mr. White's drinking water on their flaming generator in the middle of the desert. He continues to address the clearly uncomfortable Brock. "What is important is you. Why don't you tell me why you're here? You don't have to diagnose yourself or anything. Just, why today?"

Brock clears his throat and looks down at his hands. "The bastards at the home. They, uh- found my crystal. Said it was the last straw, that I had to go to special counseling. The shrink at the home wasn't working, I guess." He's wringing his hands now. _He must feel really guilty. That's good, at least it shows that he knows he did wrong. Only if he knew how guilty I feel right now. I feel like he should be counseling me!_

"You were seeing a counselor before me?" Jesse hopes he sounds inconspicuous, like he's asking all the standard questions. To be honest, he can't even remember what he is supposed to be asking since he's so overwhelmed.

"Uh, yeah," Brock mumbles, ashamed. "I was, um, smoking pot. Then I started doing meth. The adults at the home, they didn't know about how much time I spent on the streets. Until they found it."

Jesse feels absolutely despaired. _This all sounds so familiar. In all my classes at college, the professors all say that pot is a gateway drug. And they're always right. That's how it happened to me. But how could it happen to Brock? Why him?! The sweet boy that I knew…_

"When you say 'the adults at the home', who do you mean?" Jesse asks. He can infer what Brock means by this, he just has to make sure.

"The people who work at the boys' home. Where I live. Since…" Brock trails off and Jesse's heart shatters as the boy's eyes tear up. _Does Brock even know that I know about his mother's murder? I guess not, since I had broken up with Andrea by then. _Upon seeing the way Brock reacts to the subject, which is no doubt a touchy and personal one, Jesse pushes the tissue box sitting on the coffee table closer to the boy. He has to resist the urge to take a tissue for himself. "Go on, Brock. Tell me."

"Since my mom was shot," Brock chokes, and he breaks down. He hangs his head in his hands, trying in vain to control his sobs. Jesse puts a hand to his mouth to try and stifle his own. Brock's shoulders shake violently, his whole body wracked with his heavy crying. This scene is so emotional, so pitiful. Jesse never would have guessed, the day he met Andrea, that he'd be in this situation: counseling her addicted son after she was murdered by neo-nazis. _All because I got caught escaping. That's why she's dead, and that's obviously why he's here. _

"It's okay, Brock," Jesse coos, reaching out to put his hand on Brock's shoulder. He hopes that he's not overstepping any borders, but then again, he was the closest thing to a father that Brock was ever going to get. His fingers gently touch Brock's shoulder and Jesse feels something strange inside of him. It must be his paternal instinct, the desire to protect and help Brock through anything and everything that he struggles with. For a moment, Jesse heart feels warm and full of love for the desperate, broken boy in front of him. _I can fix you, _he thinks, filled with a newfound power and motivation.

"I'm sorry, Brock," he whispers. That sets Brock off. He stands up and violently throws Jesse's hand off of him.

"SORRY WON'T BRING HER BACK!" he wails, a scream so full of anger, sadness, and hate, that it makes the hairs on the back of Jesse's neck stand up. Brock turns around and angrily kicks the couch, grunting as he does so. This makes Jesse stand up quickly, holding out a hand to subdue the raging boy.

"Brock, you have to calm down," he says forcefully. "We can talk about this!" Brock whips around and stares at Jesse with frenzied, teary, red eyes. He points a shaking, tense finger at Jesse and says in a low, threatening voice, "Shut up."

Jesse chooses to remain silent, hoping that Brock will say something that Jesse can counter, to try to talk some sense into him. But there's no hope of that. Brock has flown off the handle. He charges out of the room, shouldering Jesse out of the way. Jesse turns and darts out of the room to follow him, but Brock has already run out of the front door of the clinic.

Feeling hopeless, Jesse holds the door open and calls out to Brock. He doesn't respond, just keeps marching down the street. _There's no way I can make him come back. _

_Damnit. Brock has snapped. He's devastated, in ruins. God, what have I done? I've ruined the lives of two innocent people that I loved! This is all my fault… I killed Andrea and now I've killed Brock, just like how I opened the door and shot Gale right between his eyes. Andrea didn't deserve what happened to her, and neither does Brock. I have to help him. I _have to.

Jesse slinks back into the clinic like a child that's just been scolded. He doesn't even look up when Ella asks him, "What in the vine-ripened hell was that all about?!" He silently slides into his office and into his leather chair, rests his chin on his folded arms, and sits in silence. Jesse wants no more than to break down and cry just like Brock, but he can't. He hasn't been able to do that since the night be escaped. He's been numb for seven years. And look what's it's done to the people he left behind.


	3. Chapter 3

Jesse spends the rest of the day in a haze. He can't focus, and while he feels unhelpful to his clients, he doesn't go home Instead, he sits quietly in each of his appointments, his mind floating elsewhere. There have been challenging patients, ones who relapse or are just completely resistant. But Brock is a new problem. Jesse knows he not only has to help Brock with his issues, Jesse must resolve his own, deep personal troubles. And he's just not ready for that. It's been seven years and he's still scarred from his terrifying experience. _Who wouldn't __be?_

Mindlessly, Jesse starts packing up his briefcase. He puts paper after paper in his bag, not even pausing to think, like he's on auto-pilot. It's been hours since Brock's outburst, but Jesse's mind is still reeling. His fingers are even shaking the slightest bit. _How am I gonna hide this from Phoebe?_

As he turns around to turn off his office lights, Jesse's eyes once more fall on the picture of him and Phoebe on their honeymoon. He feels a pang of guilt resonate through his chest. And, for the first time, something else. _Fear? _Jesse feels uneasy for a second, then manages to shrug it off and walk to the clinic's door.

"You heading out?" Ella inquires from behind her desk. It's 4:40, and the office doesn't close for another 20 minutes. Her tone isn't accusatory, it's more concerned. She, as well as everybody in the building, had seen what happened during Ethan's 9:00 appointment, and she wants to make sure he's okay.

"Huh?" Jesse says confusedly. _The day's over, why wouldn't I be headed out? _His eyes drift warily to the clock behind Ella's desk, and he realizes the reason for Ella's question. Jesse really doesn't want to go back to his desk, take out all his papers, and log back in to his computer, only having to immediately pack up again. He gives a small sigh. _  
><em>

"It's okay, Ethan," Ella says with a wink. "I'll cover for you."

_Thank you, _Jesse mouths. He's almost out of the door when Ella calls him back in. Now he's starting to lose patience. _I just want to get the hell out of here and go home, _he thinks exasperatedly. He has a fake smile plastered on his face by the time he approaches Ella, drumming his fingers on her desk.

She leans in close to him, whispering, "What happened earlier today?" _Damn, how do I __explain that… _He clears his throat to bide his time and come up with some half-assed answer. To be honest, he doesn't even want to answer. The whole thing was just one giant mess he'd like to forget ever happened. _If only I could forget..._

"Looks like he's jut gonna be a tough client," Jesse replied. He takes a quick glance around to make sure no one was listening; he doesn't like to discuss his patients behind their backs. "But, you know what they all say. Gotta have hope and everything. Do me a favor, will ya? If his guardians make him another appointment, could you call me and let me know? Even if it's outside of office hours. That'd be a huge help."

Ella nods, and with that, Jesse leaves. He walks quickly to his car, slamming the door behind him. He starts the ignition, causing _Don't Stop_ to resume playing. Jesse angrily turns it off. He's too high strung to listen to music right now. The drive home is a tense one, Jesse's knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel. The whole way home, he can't stop thinking about what to tell Phoebe. _There's no way I'm telling her about Brock. As far as she's concerned, you had a tough client today. Nothing more.__  
><em>

Then the voice of Jesse's conscience kicks in. _Yeah, Jesse, you're not a former addict who spent 6 months enslaved to and making meth for neo-nazis. And Ethan Hawthorne is totally you're real name, the one on both your birth certificate and your marriage license. You're a perfect American citizen, aren't you? Real deserving of Phoebe._

The inner criticism is too much for Jesse to take. Tears start to cloud his vision. Screaming, he bangs a hard left into a gas station, ignoring the angry honks from oncoming cars. He rockets into the station and brakes violently in front of a pump. His car isn't low on petrol or anything; that's not why he's here. Jesse furiously turns off his car and enters the convenience store.

The woman working at the counter gives Jesse a brief "Hello." He doesn't even reply, just curtly demands a box of Marlboros. Taken aback by Jesse's agitated rudeness, she keeps him in the corner of her eye as she grabs the cigarettes. She places them on the counter cautiously, as though Jesse is about to rob the store. She announces the total and Jesse reaches in his wallet for his credit card. Then he second guesses his decision and pays with cash instead. He walks out of the store brusquely, not wanting to be seen by anybody, especially a co-worker. _Or Phoebe._

Jesse sits quietly in his car for a few minutes, staring at the pack. _Come on, Jesse, _it says to him. _Just one little cigarette. _The plastic around the package glistens seductively, enticing Jesse. Sweat breaks out on his forehead; the pressure is too much, he has to just smoke one cigarette. _How long has it been? Over seven years? Come on, I owe it to myself._

_NO! _Jesse shoves the unopened box of cigarettes into the glove box and slams his hands on the steering wheel. He speeds out of the gas station, receiving even more angry blares from the drivers he cut off.

Phoebe's car isn't in the driveway when her husband pulls up. He lets himself into the house, throwing his briefcase down right in the foyer and stalks to the garage. He feels out of control, frenzied… He opens the fridge and takes out a cold can of beer. _God, I needed this, _ his brain says to him. The liquid is so refreshing, cooling down Jesse's flaming interior. The alcohol seeps right into his veins and makes its way to his brain. By the time the can is almost empty, Jesse can practically remember why he was so upset in the first place. His whole work day has become one long, drawn-out blur. _Whatever. _He grabs a new can, throwing the old one in the recycling.

Pasta is boiling away on the stove when Phoebe walks in the door. She greets Jesse with a joyful kiss, squeezing his shoulders. Jesse barely notices the strange face she makes, as though she can taste the alcohol on his lips. She doesn't seem to care though, and sits down at the kitchen counter.

Not wanting her to ask the question, Jesse asks how Phoebe's day at work was. "Same old, same old," she says, like brain surgery is some boring thing. Well, maybe it is to someone who does it all day, every day. Anyway, she clearly doesn't have any interesting stories. Every once and a while, Phoebe will come home bright-eyed and bushy-tailed over some fantastic surgery she performed that went splendid, or how she saved some terminal child's life. Jesse would then have to combat that with some story about how a stoner came in to therapy high as a kite and vomited on the floor of Jesse's office, as though that somehow ranks up there with neurosurgery.

Jesse's heart races out of fear that Phoebe will turn the question around on Jesse and ask him about his day at work. Relief rushes over him when she says, "You look sexy in that apron."

Phoebe raises her eyebrows, resting her chin in her hand. Her strawberry-blonde hair falls lightly around her face, and she looks like she's practically glowing. The touch of mascara she's wearing brings out the rich, deep color of her eyes. Her lips looked perfectly outlined with faint lip gloss. _She looks so beautiful, _Jesse thinks. He can't tell if it's the beer talking, or him, but all he wants to do right now is run over and kiss her. Which she does. Phoebe is a little caught off-guard, but gives in to Jesse's forceful kiss.

She stops him when she hears a sizzling coming from the stove. "Ethan," she says, pulling him away. "I think the pasta's boil ing over." He turns confusedly and sees the awful mess he's made; there's water spilling over the sides of the pot, noodles falling onto the floor, steam spewing every which way. _Damn it… _Jesse struggles to remember how many drinks he's had. _Two? Three? Whatever._

"I can get it, honey," Phoebe says. She starts to get up, but Jesse holds out a hand. "I'm okay, Phoebes. Can you go get me a beer, though?" She nods, but gives him a strange sideways glance.

Within a few minutes, the couple is sitting down to a simple meal of spaghetti. Phoebe is quietly sipping on water, but Jesse is quickly working his way through another drink. He's really feeling the effects of it now, even for someone with a high tolerance for drugs.

Phoebe doesn't ask about Jesse's day at work. He doesn't bring it up, and from the fact that he is drinking beer at dinner, she guesses that he doesn't want to talk about it. Jesse does notice that Phoebe seems to be hiding a smile. Resting her chin in her hand again, she drums her fingers on the dining room table, like she's got some secret she wants to tell, but is waiting for the right moment to tell it. Finally, she can't take it anymore, and she clears her throat, stands, and walks over to Jesse.

"Ethan, I have something very important to tell you," she says slowly, but with a tense excitement. She's trying to pace herself, but not very effectively, since she is literally bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Jesse looks into her eyes, those beautiful eyes. He feels such a conflicting pair of emotions: unconditional love and unbearable guilt. He feels his throat close up, but manages to keep any tears at bay. _Why? Why did Brock have to come in today? Why did he have to come in at all? I love Brock like he's my own… But in a situation like this, isn't ignorance bliss? _Jesse kicks himself for thinking such a selfish thing. _No, I owe it to Brock to help him, and I owe it to Andrea too. It's because of me that her son is addicted, it's because of me that she's dead..._

Phoebe stirs Jesse from his deliberation by reaching out her hands and grabbing one of Jesse's. She holds it for a few seconds, squeezes it. Then, delicately, she moves his hand and places it on her abdomen. She looks down at Jesse and gives him a broad, teary-eyed smile.

"Ethan, I'm pregnant."


	4. Chapter 4

_Jesse thrashes violently, struggling against his bindings. He throws his whole body against the door of the van. He knows, with growing horror and desperation, that his attempts are in vain, but that doesn't stop him from trying with every fiber of his being to save her. Todd is approaching the door, the door of Andrea's house. Jesse knows what is about to happen, and the terror fills his entire body and mind, practically consuming and suffocating him. Now Andrea is tentatively stepping out of the house, and the light from her porch surrounds her, forming a delicate halo around her. _NO, NO, NO! _Jesse tries to scream, but the warning is muffled by the gag in his mouth. Todd raises his arm, and as Jesse sees what the bastard is holding, he feels his heart freeze. His whole body is covered in sweat, but inside, Jesse feels so cold. He is about to watch his enslaver murder the innocent love of his life, right in front of him. And there is nothing Jesse can do about it. He screams, a terrible, inhuman scream, the sound of an animal being tortured within an inch of its life. The wounds on his face reopen, and lines of blood drip down his face, mixing with the tears. _I have to save her, they can't do this, I love her, _Jesse's thoughts race inside his head, trying to distract him from what he is seeing unfold. _

_And, in a single puff of smoke, Andrea falls dead._

* * *

><p>"Ethan?" Phoebe prompts, her arms linked around Jesse's shoulders. He is staring off into the distance, with what appear to be tears in his eyes. This tugs at Phoebe's heart, as she hopes these are tears of joy and not of anger or fear. But why would he be angry or afraid? She throws away this silly thought and returns to trying to get a reaction out of her husband.<p>

For the first time in a long time, Jesse does not know what to say or do. He's still trying to process what Phoebe just told him. The memory of Andrea's murder keeps playing in his mind, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He blinks, then looks down at Phoebe. The woman he married, the person who he chose to spend the rest of his new life with.

"I love you so much," he finally says, gently picking her up and hugging her tight. Jesse's heart is pounding, his head spinning. _I can't be a father, _he thinks hopelessly. _I'm not even a man. I was held as a meth slave-cook for six months, and I've lied about it to my innocent wife for three years. What am I? A liar, that's what I am._

"I'm so happy! We're going to have a little baby!" Phoebe squeals. Now tears are coming to her eyes too, which Jesse wipes away with his thumb. But he feels empty and overwhelmed at the same time. _I don't deserve this… I'm a criminal, perpetually on the run, and am nine months away from having a child. That child will inevitably raised in a house of lies, never to find out who his father really was._

_And if Phoebe does find out? What then? _Jesse can barely stand the thought. He would lose her, the baby, and he would probably go to jail. Heisenberg's meth empire isn't something that Albuquerque could just forget. Just like the Wayfarer 515 accident. _Oh, God, Jane..._

His thoughts travel back to Andrea, to Brock, their lives ravaged while he was simply able to tun away from his. _Coward, _Jesse thinks, and his throat closes up. He starts to quiver, and the room is tilting. _I can't have a family! _Panic, fear, and anger rise in his throat. He's not mad at Phoebe; he's mad at himself. _For lying to her. For inherently ruining her life. She's going to have a child with _Heisenberg's partner!

"I'll be right back, honey," Jesse says, and he hurries to the upstairs bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he turns on the faucet and splashes icy cold water on his face. The liquid washes away the sweat that Jesse's pores had produced, cooling him down. His fingers tremble with shock; he is still having trouble processing Phoebe's major news, like any other father in the country. _But not every father is an escaped former meth slave-cook._ He looks in the mirror and feels utter disgust. The person staring back at Jesse is a felon, a criminal, an addict, a liar. By all accounts, an evil person. He traces his scars slowly with his index finger, triggering the painful memories of how he got them. Recollecting his slavery makes Jesse's insides feel black and frozen. Like he's dead.

A glint of light catches Jesse's eyes. Looking down, he sees his wedding band, seemingly more vibrant then ever. He delicately runs his finger around the outside of it, the cool metal calming his feverish body. The ring steadily spins around, giving off more shimmers. _I've never taken this band off, _Jesse remembers. _In all the time that Phoebe and I have been married. Never._

_I have to tell her, _Jesse resolves. The very idea gives him goosebumps, but deep down, he knows it's the right one. _I don't know when, or how, but she has to know. At least before the baby is born. _Jesse's thoughts pause. _What if she decides to leave me after I tell her? I'd lose her _and _the baby. _Then Jesse thinks harder for a moment. _I'd still have Brock, _he decides. The thought is comforting to him.

Phoebe knocks softly on the door, but it still makes Jesse jump. Wiping his face on a towel, he steps out and immediately embraces his wife. He kisses her passionately, stroking her shoulders gently. She hugs him tightly, whispering, "I love you" into his shirt.

The two go to bed early that night. Jesse leaves the blinds open so he can enjoy the night sky. The stars are dimmer tonight, he notices, just barely visible. It is the moon that is the brightest in the sky, casting a pale silver light throughout Jesse and Phoebe's bedroom. The blinds cut through the rays, casting eerie lines across the bed. They are strangely familiar to Jesse: _Those shadows… the bars… _Jesse's heart skips a beat and he pulls the comforter up to his neck like a terrified child. _I still remember the night I tried to escape, _Jesse recalls bitterly. _I asked for Todd to take the tarp off my cage so I could see the stars. That was the night Andrea died._

Jesse swallows back his tears, turning over in his bed and pressing his face into the pillow. It's not long before his breath makes the fabric too hot, and Jesse flips the pillow over. The cool, refreshing cloth feels divine against his cheek. Jesse's eyelids become heavy and the edge of his vision loses its clarity as much-needed sleep comes to him.

* * *

><p>There is a horrible crashing sound as the bedroom door is kicked open. Jesse wakes instantly from his sleep. Immediately, his first instinct is to run, but he overcomes this and vows to protect Phoebe with his life. But he's too late: the intruder has Phoebe in a head lock, holding a gun to her. There are tears running down her face, which shine by the light of the moon. She is writhing against the man's grip, but it is far too tight. He even has a hand around her mouth to protect her from screaming. The intruder is wearing all black, with the trademark ski mask around his face. Underneath, it could be anyone… <em>Anyone...<em>

Jesse starts to run to the other side of the room, to attack this bastard and kill him; however, as soon as Jesse jerks forward, the intruder cocks his gun. Jesse's insides fall within him and the familiar cold feeling coats his whole being. Now he's afraid to speak, afraid to move, in case the criminal were to pull the trigger. Jesse's eyes dart around the room, looking for some way to kill this man, the man who is threatening to kill Jesse's family. There's nothing, and the whole room is locked in this tense stalemate.

_How do I save her? Do I scream? Do I run at him? _There are a million thoughts going through Jesse's adrenaline-soaked brain. Now more than ever he wishes he had bought a firearm. _I always knew my past would catch up with me. Phoebe will NOT die because of me! _In a valiant display, Jesse lunges forward at the attacker, but what the attacker says stops Jesse dead in his tracks,

"Stay right there, Jesse," the man says. _That voice… So disturbingly cool for a man about to murder an innocent woman. The single lock of hair sticking out from his ski mask. _The realization makes Jesse drops to his knees as his blood turns to ice. This man could only be...

_Todd. How can he be here? He died the night Mr. White came to kill Jack._ I _killed him… Unless__…_ A shiver runs through Jesse, all the way down his spine. _Could he have survived?_

_He's here to kill my wife, my unborn child… That demonic bastard! God, what if he already killed Brock tonight, or my parents, or Jake? Could he be working his way through all the people left behind in my wake of crime and deceit? Will he kill them and then enslave me, force me to cook Heisenberg's meth again? I could lie, say I don't remember how… It has been seven years… _But Jesse knows this is ridiculous. His very muscles remember how to cook, like it never left him, and the formulas have been sitting in the dark recesses of Jesse's brain, waiting to be dusted off.

"Yeah," Todd boasts, taking off his ski mask and roughly adjusting his grip on Phoebe. "I found you. And I found your little wifey, too. How's about we go back into business, Jess?" Todd raises his eyebrows as though he already knows what Jesse will say. But Jesse's answer and Todd's plan are two very different ideas.

"YOU GET AWAY FROM HER!" Jesse shrieks, standing up to tackle Todd and beat the life out of him. However, as soon as he is on his feet, Todd fires a bullet and hits Jesse right in the foot. He inhales sharply and falls back down to his knees, a paroxysm of pain shooting through his leg and right to his heart. When he hits the ground, Jesse is reduced to sobs that wrack his body. Todd cocks his gun once more and points it back at Phoebe, who is trembling from head to toe.

"Wrong answer," Todd says in his stony, emotionless voice. "I'm gonna give you one more try. So, Jesse, how about we go back into business.

Jesse cannot answer. _What do I say? If I say no, he'll shoot Phoebe. If I say yes, he'll shoot Phoebe anyway just to kill the witness and my reason to escape. Just like last time. "Remember, there's still the kid…"_

His thoughts continue to race around his head, with Jesse barely able to comprehend them. He's about to say, "Fine, take me, just don't kill Phoebe," when Todd says:

"Too late." And with that, he pulls the trigger.

And, in a single puff of smoke, Phoebe falls dead.

Jesse screams so forcefully it feels like his whole chest is unraveling, all the way up to his head. He is literally being torn in half, being shredded, right here. Dull to the pain in his foot, Jesse crawls over to Phoebe's lifeless body. He flips her over so she is looking up. Moonlight falls across her face, highlighting the streaks of tears on her face and the glint of fear in her eye as her existence leaves her.

Jesse wails, once more, scarcely able to move, to think. Every fiber of his being wants to leap up and attack Todd, to beat him until he no longer looks human, but when he tries to get up, his limps don't listen. Instead, Jesse turns to face his wife's murderer, to stare at him with hate in his eyes, and sees that Todd is leaving. The gun hangs limply, nonchalantly in his hand, still smoking. As Todd leaves, he blends in with the shadows by the shattered door frame, his faced completely absorbed by the darkness.

By this point, Jesse can scarcely breathe anymore, only gasp for shreds of air like someone who's drowning in the middle of the ocean. The tears that were streaming down his face have ceased: he doesn't have any more. He feels like he's about to die when Todd whispers one horrifying sentence.

"Remember, there's still the kid."

* * *

><p>"ETHAN!" Phoebe shouts, shaking Jesse's shoulders. He shoots up in bed with a desperate, terrified yell. He feels like everything is happening at double speed, but his mind is only half as fast. For a moment, he can't even remember where he is, and panics for a moment as he is about to shout "Andrea!"<p>

Jesse is drenched in sweat and his heart is racing, practically bursting out of his chest with each beat. He whips his head around and jumps at his wife's face, which is very close to hers. She is stroking his hair, her other hand resting in between his shoulder blades. His body heaves with each ragged breath.

Phoebe rubs Jesse's back gently and pulls his head closer to rest it on her shoulder. Her heart beats softly inside her chest: soft, but alive. He mouths a silent prayer for the fact that this was all some terrible dream, that Todd is dead, and Phoebe and the baby are safe. _For now, _a terrible voice whispers in Jesse's head.

"Ssshhh," Phoebe coos, rocking her husband gently. "It's okay. It was just a dream. It's over now. You're safe."

_No, you're not._

_Not while I'm around. _


	5. Chapter 5

It's 10 o'clock in the morning on Sunday and Jesse is painting the perfect picture of inconspicuousness. The grocery store is peacefully busy with early morning shoppers, stocking up on paper towels, frozen pizza, and Benadryl. And right in the middle of the snack aisle is the former partner of drug lord Heisenberg, picking up a bag of Funyuns. He's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, not too different than what he wore when peddling meth, just less stoner-like.

Jesse sneaks suspicious, sideways glances at the shoppers around him. _Who's that old lady at the end of the aisle? She looks totally out of it… heroin addict? Compulsive shoplifter? Serial killer? She could be anybody. _The elderly woman waddles away innocently and Jesse snorts amusedly. His little prosecuting game was what he used to navigate public places, to relieve the mounting tension and paranoia. Theoretically, anybody in this store could be a former meth cook. The thought made Jesse feel almost… welcome.

_Brrrrrrng! _Jesse's phone rings unexpectedly, causing him to violently rip it out of his pocket. Ever since Phoebe's announcement and the nightmare, he's been a little on edge.

"Ethan?" Phoebe mutters from the other side of the call. Jesse's heart pounds. _Has she been captured? Beaten? Threatened?_

"Phoebe?" Jesse replies, his voice thready and weak. "What is it?"

"Could you get some bananas while you're at the store?" Jesse feels his face flush with relief, then embarrassment at his unprecedented overreaction. "The cravings are killing me, and I could really go for one right now. Or three."

Jesse smiles and exhales with relief. "Sure thing, baby. I'll take care of it right now. Love you." He hangs up, which he finds difficult due to his trembling hands. Jesse wipes his forehead with the back of his head, then, looking down at his cart, reassures himself. _It's okay, I got Funyuns._

After picking up the freshest bunch of bananas, Jesse refers back to his grocery list. Next up: prenatal vitamins. Jesse can't help but feel his chest swell with pride and happiness; former dealer or not, he's still going to be a father. Then, his thoughts drift off to the darker parts of his life: Spooge and the red-haired kid. _Spooge was a father and an addict. Will I end up like that? And if I do, what'll happen to Phoebe? Will she be just like his freaky, murdering wife? Will our child be left sitting on our front steps as the police come to find his or her father's body underneath an ATM?_

_Slow down, Jesse_, he finds himself saying. _You've rebuilt your life. You've worked so hard for it. Remember getting your master's degree? Being on-campus? You never even _thought _about trying a toke of weed. What makes you think you'd fall off the wagon now?_

With his confidence restored, Jesse wanders over to the pharmaceuticals. On his way, he passes an overwhelmed father struggling to subdue his toddler, who was in the middle of a tantrum. The boy was screaming, kicking, and going boneless in his father's arms. The dad received many varied looks from other shoppers: disgust, pity, sympathy. In Jesse, it evoked a kind of excitement. One day, that would be him. It didn't even matter that the dad looked as if he was at his wit's end. When his and Phoebe's child was born, Jesse might finally be able to leave all his horrors behind. _But that's what I told myself when I proposed..._

Jesse turns down the medicine aisle, but doesn't make it to the vitamins. Instinctually, by muscle memory, he picks up a box of pseudoephedrine. Confused at the action his body took that his brain didn't command, he looks down at what he is holding and drops it like it's white-hot metal. _Pseudo…_ Years upon years of buying boxes in grocery stores all around the South-West had caused it to become and instinct. Jesse gingerly picks up the box and puts it back on the shelf. As he walks away, he feels the back of his neck burn as though someone is staring at him. He turns, but sees no one: just the box of pseudo, staring at him, silently screaming, _"__Why didn't you take me?!__"_

Having gotten all the groceries, Jesse wastes no time in checking out and leaving the store. Once he's in his car, he draws a long breath and rests his forehead on the steering wheel. The cool leather feels great on his head. Jesse feels like he's about to drift off when his phone jars him out of his relaxation. _Dammit, what now?_

The caller ID reveals that the call is from the office. Jesse answers tentatively.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Ethan," Ella says, sounding chipper as ever. "How are you today?"

_Ugh, please, no smalltalk… _"I'm well. Everything okay at the office?"

"Yes," Ella pauses. "You told me to call you if we got a call from the boys' home? The one that that kid came from? Brock… Cantillo?"

_No, no, no! _Jesse find himself thinking. _I can't look in that boy's eyes, knowing I'm the reason his mom is dead. He doesn't even know that. There is no way I can help him. Absolutely none._

"Well, his guardians signed him up for you 3:00 appointment tomorrow."

Despite the excruciating pain, Jesse bites his tongue to keep himself from screaming into his phone. "Thanks, Ella. Have a nice day." He hangs up hurriedly, throws his phone onto the seat next to him, and loses it.

Jesse pounds the dashboard and steering wheel with his fists, hitting the horn a few times and drawing angry looks from pedestrians. He screams from the pain, physical and emotional. His blood is boiling over, his vision clouding. _Helping Brock means fighting my own demons, something that I haven't been able to do for seven years. _Jesse's fear turns to vicious anger. _Selfish kid, doesn't even know what kind of pain he's bringing on me and my family. He doesn't deserve my help. I didn't force him to become addicted; that's his own damn fault!_

Still teeming in a fit of rage, an idea blooms in Jesse's mind. He depresses the car's cigarette lighter and pulls the pack he bought weeks ago out from the glove box. He hastily rips the package open, greed and desire poisoning his mind. All he wants right now is to smoke, and why shouldn't he?

Once the lighter is all warmed up, Jesse lights up his cigarette. Smoke curls devilishly out of the tip, forming beautiful wisps and swirls as it permeates the car. Before Jesse even brings the cigarette to his lips, the smoke begins to work his way through his body, calming him. Jesse studies the cig, smiling evilly at its pure whiteness and delighting at the familiar feel of the paper in his fingers.

Jesse brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a long, luxurious drag. The nicotine rushes through his body like whitewater, bringing sweet relief to his nerves. _It's been years, _Jesse's thoughts wander. _God, how I've missed you. _He is lulled into a drugged daze, feeling peaceful, complete. _Right now, I'm Jesse Bruce Pinkman. And damn, this feels right. _He's lived with an itch, a craving for seven years now, and it's finally been satisfied.

The cigarette is almost done when Jesse seemingly snaps back into his normal, Ethan self. _What have I done? _Jesse begins to panic, jumping out of his car and stomping on the cigarette with all the force he can muster. _I've been clean for years! How can this happen?! _Then, a dark shadow falls over him. _What if Phoebe finds out? If I can't control myself and trust myself to keep my past a secret when I'm alone, how am I supposed to do that when she's around?!_

Swiping in vain at his coat, trying to dissipate whatever residual ash and secondhand smoke is left, Jesse speeds home.

* * *

><p>"Honey, I'm home!" Jesse announces as he walks in the front door with the groceries. His nerves and his guilt cause his heart rate to shoot up. Phoebe is sitting in the living room reading, curled up in a blanket and drinking peppermint tea. Jesse puts down the bags and walks over to his wife. He moves to kiss her on the top of the head, but she jerks away and runs upstairs, hand over her mouth. Jesse hears the bathroom door slam shut, and lingers behind to give Phoebe her privacy. <em>She's really not been feeling well these past weeks, <em>he reflects. _Must be the baby. That's a good sign, right?_

Jesse hears the door open and calls up to Phoebe. "You okay, Phoebes?"

She coughs and croaks back, "Reasonably." Jesse hangs up his coat and walks tentatively up the stairs to their bedroom. Phoebe is laying spread out on the bed, a cold washcloth on her forehead. Jesse sits next to her, stroking her hair.

"You alright, baby?" he whispers.

"Ugh, this baby won't let me enjoy any type of food," Phoebe growls, albeit good-naturedly.

"I was talking to you, but okay," Jesse grins. Phoebe chuckles and squeezes her husband's hand.

"Sorry, Ethan, it's just…" she pauses to adjust herself in the bed and sit up. "Your coat smells like smoke."

Jesse's heart just about stops. _She knows, she's gonna find out. When she does, she'll leave, call the police, and I'll be locked up, away from my wife and child! _He clears his throat nervously, tasting the tar that lined his trachea.

"Oh, um," Jesse struggles to think of an excuse. He fears that he's about to lose credibility when a reasonable lie slips out. "Must be from the clinic. You know, patients smoking in the waiting room and all. That must be it. Yeah. Definitely." Jesse stops trailing abruptly because Phoebe's giving him a weird look and he's trying to convince himself more than her.

"Hmm," Phoebe mumbles, satisfied. Jesse gives a silent sigh and pulls the covers around his wife. "I'll leave you to take a nap, how's that?" Jesse whispers. Phoebe exhales softly as her response, and Jesse walks out of the room, turning as he closes the door to blow his wife an air kiss.

Downstairs, Jesse takes off his coat. He leans against the front door, head in his hands.

_What have I done?_

_Who am I: Ethan or Jesse?_


	6. Chapter 6

"You look extra fancy today," Phoebe smiles, arms hooked around Jesse's shoulders. He stares dead-eyed into the mirror, buttoning up his shirt and looking like he's headed to a funeral. He may as well might be, for how he feels right now. _Second meeting with Brock, _he thinks, wringing his hands. _God, I can't do this. I've had hundreds of patients,_ addicted_ to every substance under the sun, but none like this._

"Earth to Ethan," Phoebe whispers in his ear, making him jump. She steps back in confusion, then gently turns him around so he is facing her. Phoebe lightly places a hand on Jesse's face, stroking his cheek and tilting her head.

"You okay, baby?" she asks. Jesse finds it in himself to don a reassuring smile and give Phoebe a long kiss.

"Fine, Phoebes", he says, twirling a strand of her hair. _She seems convinced, _Jesse notes_. Good. _

_"_I just have a really tricky client today, that's all," he finds himself saying before stopping himself, hoping that he doesn't accidentally say too much. _Remember, not telling the whole truth is not the same thing as lying, _a little voice in Jesse's head tells him.

"Nothing the great Ethan Hawthorne can't fix!" Phoebe exclaims, amorously embracing him and kissing his cheek. For a moment, Jesse feels frozen in time, wrapped in Phoebe's soft warmth and her sweet scent, and he doesn't ever want it to be over. He wants to forget that he is still on the run from a vile, horrifying past that could swoop in and steal his wife and child from him at any time.

Jesse is able to shake that though away from him and summons the courage to say goodbye to Phoebe, kiss her once more, and walk out to his car.

Their neighbor, Mrs. Hills, is out getting her newspaper. Mrs. Hills is the perfect representation of one of America's favorite stereotypes: the crazy cat lady. In fact, two of her "little babies" are walking behind her, one lazily staring at the sky while the other prowls underneath the car for prey. She waves a friendly hello to Jesse, then adjusts the comically large spectacles that were sliding down her wrinkly, freckly face.

_Look at her,_ Jesse thinks. _She could be a criminal mastermind. Geez, look at her yellow teeth. Yeah, she could be a crack addict. Probably gonna go inside and smoke a bowl while playing with her freaky-ass cats. Yeah. She'd rank right up there with Wendy, that skeezy creep from the Crystal Palace._

The very thought of his psycho cat lady neighbor smoking crystal is absurd enough to bring a wry smile to Jesse's face and but he time he's in his car, his spirits have risen considerably. Ozzy's _Iron Man _is blasting on the radio when Jesse pulls up to a red light.

Unconsciously, he leans over in his seat to reach into the glove box. Still not thinking, he pulls out the pack of cigarettes. He turns it in his hands as his car's cigarette lighter heats up, the traffic light taking its sweet time turning green. Finally, once it's ready, Jesse lights up the cig. Jesse is smoking, but he doesn't even think twice about it. To him, everything just feels _right, _natural, like this is the way things are supposed to be.

The cigarette is hanging stiffly from Jesse's lips when the light instantaneously turns green and he rockets through the intersection. Jesse's car is by no standards a muscle car; it's just a decent sedan. But the way the car roars as it abruptly shifts into gear reverberates through Jesse's skeleton and makes him feel _alive. _He shooting down the road at five, ten, fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit.

_Can't believe I didn't get pulled over, _Jesse muses as he slides into his parking spot at the clinic with a smile stretched broadly across his face. Glowing with his newfound confidence, he nods suavely at Ella, waltzes into his office, and begins to count the minutes until Brock's appointment.

* * *

><p>"Your 3:00 is here, Ethan," Ella announces over the intercom. Pursing his lips and tasting some residual ash from his afternoon smoke break, Jesse draws a deep breath and emerges into the hallway. Brock is sitting in a chair, hunched over, hands clasped together as if in prayer. Jesse extends a hand to Brock, but the kid doesn't shake it, just follows him into the stereotypical therapy setting with the sofas and tissues and candles.<p>

"Good afternoon, Brock," Jesse begins. His notebook is opened to a new page, ready to get a fresh start with his late ex-girlfriend's kid. "How are you today?"

Brock looks up from the floor and narrows his eyes at Jesse. "How the hell do you think I'm doing?! My mom is dead for no reason at all! I'm living in a home for orphans! I HAVE NO FAMILY!" Jesse prematurely pushes the box of tissues across the coffee table towards Brock, but the boy isn't crying. He ran out of tears long ago; now all he has is anger.

"Brock, I'm here to help you, no matter what, okay?" Jesse resumes tentatively. "Why don't you start by telling me what happened?"

The boy draws a deep, shaky breath and shifts on the couch. It's obvious that he has a lot to say, but can't find the strength to do so. _He needs to, _Jesse thinks. _For everyone's sakes._

"So, my mom… was, uh… shot. The police never did find out who did it. God, I still remember that night…" Brock's voice trails off and his eyes become glassy with stifled tears. _Me too, kid. _Jesse's heart feels heavy. _That day was the best of my life. For Brock, it was his own personal hell._

Brock continues his tragic story, his voice gravely. "The court demanded that I go and stay in this home in St. Louis, that it would do me good to get away from Albuquerque. I mean, they were worried that whoever shot my mom was still out there, waiting to get me." Jesse freezes in horror. _Todd's dead, Todd's dead, Jack is dead, Mr. White is dead, they're all dead, _Jesse has to reassure himself. _You're all safe._

"First few months in the orphanage were the worst. Sure, everybody was nice, but… I was still an orphan. That's when I met Gabe." Brock pauses, not wanting to continue. Jesse picks up on his hesitation and prompts the kid to continue.

"Gabe, uh, told me to try some weed. Say'd it help, like it helped him. So he hooked me up with some, and it was great. I kept smoking it until the high wasn't high enough. Found some guys who helped me get some other stuff. Mostly coke, and uh… here I am."

Jesse finished writing and looked up at Brock. Putting on a serious demeanor, he addressed the kid. "Brock, I can help you. You're going to get better. Everything will get better. As long as we follow three rules together. Okay?"

"Okay," came the faint response.

"Rule number one: honesty. You can tell me anything. I will not go to the police unless there is an immediate physical threat to someone. The more I know about what's going on with you, the sooner I can help you and this'll all be over.

"Rule two: respect. This is on both of our parts. I have to respect you as a client just like you have to respect me as your therapist and an adult. That's the only way this relationship will work, with mutual respect.

"Rule three: optimism. This doesn't mean you have to walk around as the happiest person in the world. Hell, you can walk around like the world's saddest person, which I can hopefully prevent, as long as you trust that my treatment will help you. And if, at any time, you feel like it's not working, tell me. And I won't be offended; we'll find you someone else to help. You got all that?"

Brock nodded solemnly.

"Repeat them with me." Brock joined Jesse, hesitating slightly. "Honesty. Respect. Optimism."

"And lastly?" Jesse concluded, smiling. "Recovery."

And, for the first time since Brock was a little kid, Jesse saw him smile. He had to hold back a tear.

"Thanks, Jesse," Brock said, sounding genuinely hopeful.

"One more thing," he added. "I'm using my middle name now." _I hope that didn't sound like complete crap. _"So call me Ethan."

Brock gave Jesse one final look of confusion before shaking his hand and walking out of the office.


	7. Chapter 7

A note: today marks the start of school (hooray!), so sadly, updates will come much less often. I will continue to write and try to post one new chapter a week, probably alternating between stories. Sorry guys, I'm just gonna be super busy with 3 AP classes and tennis team practices. Thanks to all my followers and readers; you guys make writing fanfiction such a rewarding endeavor! Sincerely, YeahScience

* * *

><p>Jesse wakes up to the smell of freshly cooked bacon and pancakes. <em>Phoebe must be making breakfast, <em>Jesse thinks as he sits up, stretches, and gets out of bed._  
><em>

Sure enough, there's Phoebe, cooking away. _And it smells delicious. _He pads over to her and embraces her in a warm, affectionate kiss. His fingers comb her beautiful blonde hair and hers grasp Jesse's shoulders firmly. For the couple, time seems frozen for a few moments and they linger in their kiss, absorbing the delight.

Finally, Phoebe pulls away. "Dude, I'm gonna burn the bacon!" She whips around and shakes the pan, sending up a whimsical symphony of crackles.

"Forget it," Jesse says, and reaches behind his wife to turn off the burner. He wraps her in his arms, melting from the comfort of her warm presence and sweet scent. As they kiss, Phoebe grabs Jesse's hands and squeezes them. She looks down and races his tattoo with her thumb.

"You never did tell me why you got this," she whispers. A lump of guilt finds itself lodged in Jesse's throat. His various tattoos had been a taboo subject, having never come up with a satisfactory excuse. Ethan Hathorne seemed like a stand-up guy, one that wouldn't get tattoos. Jesse Pinkman, on the other hand, was not such a guy.

"After my parents died..." Jesse trails off for effect. He's a bit of an actor. Given his circumstances, it's a skill he's picked up. "I went what you might call a rebellious phase. You know, I was in college, just lost my parents, didn't know what to do with my life." He stops talking because if he continued, he might start talking about Skinny Pete or Badger. Or Blue Sky.

Phoebe looks up at him with her beautiful eyes. Jesse's heart races a little; what's that look on her face? Suspicion? Disbelief? Understanding?

Her hand comes up to rest on Jesse's shoulder.

"Ethan, you know I'm so sorry," she says quietly, hugging Jesse closer. He kisses her forehead.

"I know baby, I know. It's okay. Because I have you." He places his palm on her abdomen. "And Junior here." A proud, fatherly smile spreads across his face and his whole mind brightens at the idea of holding his newborn child.

"Speaking of which," Phoebe begins, sounding excited. "We get to find out the gender next week at the ultrasound. Take off work, you HAVE to be there!" By now she is jumping up and down with anticipation and elation.

"I wouldn't miss is for the world," Jesse says. What he feels right now is the same feeling that kept him going in all those cold nights he spent in the cage. Those harsh days being forced to cook. The thought of his family.

* * *

><p>Brock has another appointment the next day. The counseling has been going well, and the boy has been opening up to Jesse a lot. Granted, there's not a ton of progress, but Jesse and Brock both try to manage expectations. Jesse's rehab didn't take just a few weeks. Neither will Brock's.<p>

"Afternoon, Brock," Jesse greets the boy as he walks through the door to Jesse's office. Brock looks better this week: brighter, almost.

"Hey, Ethan," he says in his changed, deep voice. Strangely, Jesse feels the same pride at the boy's morale as he did when Phoebe told him about the ultrasound.

"How's your week been?" Jesse asks. Brock gets nice and comfortable on the couch, adjusting pillows and even grabbing one of the Jolly Ranchers sitting in a bowl on the side table. Even that's a gauge of the boy's behavior, because Jesse keeps the candies there specifically to judge how comfortable his clients are.

"'S been good," Brock says around the candy.

Jesse gives Brock a nice, wide smile. " Great to hear that, bud. Can you tell me anything else? How've your friends been? Last week you told me you were worried that they were still abusing some substances."

"Yeah, I heard some guy talking about how he found a guy who can get them some of that weird blue stuff."

Jesse's turns to ice. _Blue Sky? How can that stuff still be around?! Mr. White's not still alive... Is he?_

"But honestly, I don't really care if he's telling the truth. Right? 'Cuz you were telling me that drugs and stuff aren't gonna make any of this easier. That I gotta rely on us to make everything okay. That's what we talked about last week."

Jesse is so distracted from shock that he almost forgets to praise the boy for what truly is a momentous occasion. "That's exactly right, Brock. Very good. Um... I'm super proud of you."

The smile on Brock's face is enough to make Jesse forget all of his fears about Heisenberg. This might be the first time he's seen the kid genuinely happy since... Well, since Andrea was alive.

"This is a huge step, Brock. I want you to remember this feeling of accomplishment. Next time someone offers you a joint or you just feel like getting high, remember this. What it feels like to be free. Okay?"

Brock gives another winning smile and even a childlike laugh. "Yeah, Ethan. It feels good. I'm happy."

Those words threaten to melt Jesse's heart.


	8. Chapter 8

"Ooh, that's cold!" Phoebe squeals, flinching at the cool ultrasound gel as it squelches out of the bottle. The technician smiles apologetically, then removes the "scanner", or whatever that thing is. Jesse sits on the edge of his chair, staring at the monitor and holding Phoebe's hand firmly. His legs jiggle rapidly; this is the most nervous he's ever been, even more nervous than when he went to shoot those drug dealers that killed Tomas. And that's saying something.

"Dad, you're shaking!" The technician giggles. "There's nothing to be worried about. Totally routine, totally harmless."

Phoebe turns to face Jesse, crinkling the paper on the reclined chair she's sitting in.

"Ethan, why are you worried?" Phoebe whispers, leaning forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. She smiles, her face positively glowing. Jesse forgets what he was worried about and turns back to the monitor.

The woman glides the sensor back and forth across Phoebe's abdomen, producing a staticky, incomprehensible image. Jesse stares at it intently, looking for any blob that looks remotely human. There seems to be nothing on the convoluted screen, until...

"Oh! Found it!" The technician exclaims. Phoebe draws a sharp breath of excitement as the woman zooms in on the baby. To Jesse, it looks kind of like an elephant. Or maybe a teddy bear. Either way, it doesn't really look like a baby. Not yet, at least. But it stirs a beautiful emotion in Jesse's heart and he embraces his wife, tears in their eyes.

"Ethan, that's our baby," Phoebe breathes through a voice cracked with joy. Suddenly, nothing else matters. Not Mr. White, not Jane, not Todd. He was never Jesse the meth dealer. Now, he's just Ethan.

"Would you two care to know the gender?"

The question sweeps the couple off their feet. They hadn't given that any thought yet, even though it was fairly important.

"Do we?" Jesse stares blankly into his wife's face. She meets his gaze the same way, but it fades to a deep smile. "Want to?" She asks, biting her lip in anticipation.

"Alright, gender it is then! Ready?" The nurse gives a little drumroll and Jesse can feel his heart fluttering in his chest.

"It's a boy!"

Phoebe squeals with delight and throws her arms around Jesse. They laugh, punctuated by small sobs, rocking back and forth.

"We're going to have a son! A little baby boy!" Phoebe can hardly contain herself. The nurse is smiling too, printing out images and doing calculations. She presents the couple with a CD and a small picture of their baby.

"That's one healthy looking boy! Go ahead and hang that picture up on your fridge." She rises out of her swivel chair, grabbing her folder. "I'm gonna give some notes to your doctor and see if she has any questions. If not, you're free to go! Congratulations, Phoebe. And you too, Dad." With a final smile, the technician leaves the tiny room and shuts the door quietly behind her.


	9. Chapter 9

"Everything's going to be fine," Jesse whispers, leaning forward in his chair to look his patient right in the eyes. Tears streamed down her face, leaving flushed lines down her cheeks. Sobs shake her body and she lowers her face to her knees. The girl's limp, greasy hair falls in ratty cascades over the top of her head.

It's days like this that make Jesse's job wretched.

"You have to keep fighting," he continues, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Life isn't supposed to be easy. It's going to be even harder for you. But that's not an excuse. It's up to you to stay afloat." _That's what I used to tell myself when those bastards kept me imprisoned._

She looks up, brushing strands of hair out of her face. She sniffles and says, "Thanks, Ethan. You're right." Jesse's heart warms just a little; where these words empty or genuine? Her countenance was difficult to unravel.

Either way, the session was over. Jesse stands up and motions to the door. "Remember what I said, Rebecca," he calls to her as she leaves the room. He runs his fingers through his hair and heaves a deep sigh of relief. _Thank God that was the last appointment. It's been a long day. _Jesse was longing for Phoebe, her calming presence, the thought of their son…

Jesse crosses the cramped room to collect his briefcase, but a odd 'crunch' underfoot stops him dead in his tracks. _What on Earth could that be?_ He lifts up his right foot to see what he stepped on and his body goes numb. The telltale ziplock bag, the clear crystals, even the faint azure tint… _Please no, don't let it be that, _Jesse thinks, whimpering to himself. Before he even bends down to pick up the bag, Jesse knows what it is.

Blue Sky.

None other than Mr. White's 99% pure methamphetamine. _I thought this trash died with him,_ Jesse thinks bitterly with tears already brimming his eyes. _It could not still be out there. There is no one alive that knows how to cook blue. Heisenberg's dead, just like he should be._ Jesse shoves the bag into his briefcase and storms out of the clinic.

In the car, Jesse unwinds. The tears come slowly at first, vulnerable little sniffs, but then they escalate into full-blown sobs. He bangs his palms against the steering wheel, trying in vain to find a way to vent all his anger. But it's no use. _My life is over now. Everything's coming back. Brock, Blue Sky… Hell, Mr. White probably faked his death and he's still out there somewhere._

That idea drives icy fear right into Jesse's heart. _Phoebe. If he's still out there, he'll come and try to harm us. We'd be the first people he'd kill._

Jesse wastes no time in speeding home.

* * *

><p>"Phoebe?" Jesse calls as he bursts through the front door. The lights are still on and her car is in the driveway, but she is nowhere to be found. Jesse runs a lap around the first floor, all in vain. <em>She's not here, oh God, where is she?! <em>

"PHOEBE!" Jesse yells deep from his chest, determined to find the love of his life. _I'm not going to lose you! Not like Andrea! _His heart is racing as if he was high.

"Ethan, I'm up here," comes her voice, jovial and tranquil as always. She was upstairs the whole time. Jesse gives himself a moment to calm down to avoid charging upstairs disheveled and in a confused stupor. When he finally does climb the stairs, he finds the guest bedroom doors open, bright light shining out of them.

The walls are glowing bright baby blue, illuminated by the painters' lights Phoebe had set up. The minimal furniture sits to the walls of the room, covered in opaque plastic. There is navy painters' tape along the baseboards and tarp spread across the carpet. And in the center of the room, Phoebe stands in a paint-stained apron and torn-up jeans. There is a stripe of paint across her radiant face that shines with the beginnings of an enthusiastic smile.

"Well, honey?" she asks, clearly overjoyed at her project."What do you think?" Jesse looks around at the room for a minute, taking in the rich yet light color of what he assumes will be their child's nursery.

Jesse glides over to Phoebe and embraces her, scooping her up in his arms and hugging her closely. Tears begin to form in his eyes for the second time today, but these tears are of pure joy. Nothing else matters but this: his family.

"Phoebe, I love it so much," Jesse says, laying a big, loving kiss on her lips. "And I love you so much."

"I hope you're surprised," she giggles. "I took the day off work and everything so I could do it."

"I was about to ask how you got this done in just one day!" Jesse laughed good-heartedly.

Phoebe laughs along with him. "Yeah, I just went to Home Depot and asked what color paint they recommend for a boys' nursery."

"Well, I think it's perfect."

"Oh good!" she claps her hands and jumps with excitement. "I decided to go with 'Blue Sky' by Behr. Seemed like a good color to me!"

An awkward silence fills the room.

"Ethan?" Phoebe inquired. Jesse was staring blankly out of the window. _It had to be called 'Blue Sky', didn't it._


	10. Chapter 10

Hello everybody! First off, happy New Year! I wish all my readers the best in 2015. Thanks for all the support I've gotten over the past couple months; it warms my heart to check my inbox and see that you all are enjoying my writing. Secondly, sorry I haven't been able to publish as often. I've been super busy with holidays, schoolwork, and all kinds of stuff. Hopefully I'll get a lot more time to write this year! Anyway, enjoy this next, much anticipated chapter of _Legacy_! Hope you had an amazing holiday season! ~YeahScience

* * *

><p>The ride home from the clinic is grey and sluggish. Heavy rain falls apathetically from the sky, beating mercilessly upon the thin layer of late-autumn snow that fell the previous night. <em>A perfectly crappy afternoon. <em>Jesse's coat is damp from the rain and the car is stubbornly refusing to warm up. Even the radio DJ seems to be picking up on the somber aura and plays dreary tunes to match the mood.

_All the leaves are brown_  
><em>And the sky is grey<em>  
><em>I've been for a walk<em>  
><em>On a winter's day<em>

The song ends just as Jesse pulls up to his house. Phoebe's car is already parked in the driveway; _she must've just gotten home. _When he enters the house, there's no greeting. Jesse calls out to his wife, but she doesn't respond. If she indeed is in the house. The years have rendered Jesse hyper-sensitive, and he immediately assumes the worst case scenario. _The teenth of Blue Sky… Now my wife is missing… Mr. White must be back!_

Jesse bursts into a sprint, running into the living room. She wasn't there, but there are faint noises drifting from the kitchen. _It's Phoebe. _There's a jarring crash, followed by an equally jarring obscenity. Per his soon-to-be-a-father instinct, Jesse runs right to her aid. There's no meth kingpin, no DEA, just a flushed-face wife kneeling next to a steaming puddle of chicken pot pie.

"Babe, you okay?" Jesse offers, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. She is shaking, either from her soft sobs or boiling rage. She shrugs his hand off and stands up to grab the roll of paper towels on the counter. Phoebe dabs a tear from her face, then bends back down to the creamy goop on the floor.

"Honey, let me get that," Jesse says once more. "You'll burn yourself and there's broken glass on the floor." Phoebe's head snapped up, her face red and shiny from tears. To any other human, she looks like a hot mess, sloppy and disheveled. But to Jesse, she looks as beautiful as the day they married. Through gritted teeth, she growls, "I got it." _This isn't going to end well, but I'm not letting my four-months-pregnant wife clean up scalding pie laced with glass shards. Or any wife, for that matter. _

He sighs. "I'll get a trash bag and we'll clean this up. It'll be fine, Phoebes. Okay?"

"_No it won't, Ethan!_" Tense silence fills the room, and then another wave of tears hits Phoebe. She collapses in on herself, leaning back into the cabinets. She draws her legs up to her chest and sobs into her knees.

"Phoebe, calm down," Jesse says, trying to stay patient. He hadn't arrived home in the best of moods; going by Phoebe's state, she probably hadn't, either. Tempers were running short in the Hawthorne household. And there was a tantalizingly delicious pie splattered across their kitchen floor. Truly, not an ideal situation. "I can order a pizza or something. Totally okay."

"But I was trying so hard! I wanted this to turn out perfect for you!" Jesse struggled to pick out the words from the incoherent sobs of his wife: not too easy. Meanwhile, the pie was congealing upon the tile.

"I know, sweetheart," Jesse scooches over to Phoebe, leans against the cabinets, and rests her head against his shoulder. "That truly sucks. For what it's worth, the pie smells absolutely amazing. There's at least a couple scoops that didn't touch the floor, if you'd like me to taste it." He pauses to wait for his wife's light giggle, but it does not come. "Phoebe, it is just a pie."

"But it's not! I just wanted to make you a nice dinner to show you how much I love you!"

Jesse is somewhat taken aback. _Is this what she truly thinks of me? I'd love Phoebe no matter what. Even if she cooks literal crap. Can she not see that? I refuse to believe that Phoebe thinks so low of me. _"You don't have to cook me a chicken pot pie to prove that you love me. I love you no matter what."

She cries even harder. Without warning, his body is overcome with guilt, permeating his entire being. _She still doesn't know. I cooked crystal meth for a complete sociopath responsible for the deaths of dozens of innocent people. Including two of my ex-girlfriends. Our entire marriage is a lie. She doesn't know who I am. To her, I am Ethan Hawthorne. But I am Jesse Bruce Pinkman. I dragged this innocent woman into a lie she doesn't deserve. And now she's having my son._

_I'm just as big a monster as Mr. White._

"Phoebe, my honey bunches of oats, here's what's going to happen. We're gonna leave that there," he begins, gesturing to the cooled yet fragrant pile of slop resting on the floor. "You can go upstairs and take a nice, hot bath. Meanwhile, I'm going to go get something for dinner. Okay?" He holds out his hand, helping her to her feet. She wraps Jesse up in her arms. He rejoices at the taut curve of her belly, just beginning to show. _Whoever the true father is, that baby will be raised by Ethan Hawthorne._

Jesse steps into the humid, cool night. As he steps into his car, something falls out of his coat pocket. In the artificial glow of the car light, he picks up the Blue Sky. The faint, green-blue shadows it casts on his thigh are almost seductive. How many years had it been- seven? Eight? Regardless, it had been a long night. He owes it to himself.

The crystals fall joyously out of the bag.


	11. Chapter 11

The lights, green and red, streak by in the corner of Jesse's vision. He hears blood-curdling shrieks, feels his car swerve violently back and forth. There is no sense in his world, only drug. The methamphetamine is taking control of his every movement. He twitches uncontrollably, eyes watering.

_Hello, Jesse  
>It's been years<br>Welcome back_

It's her voice talking. Andrea's. She's in his head, speaking to him. _Yes, yes! She's alive!_

_Jesse…  
>Why didn't you save me?<em>

"I'M SORRY!" he yells at the top of his lungs. He pounds his palms on the steering wheel until they are numb and stinging. The car growls menacingly and Jesse recoils. _Oh God, it's going to kill me!_

Jesse whips his head to the right and looks, terrified, into the window of the driver next to him. The man is holding something: a gun. Horror rises in Jesse's throat. _I am going to die! I have to get out of here, now, it's Todd, and he's gonna kill me and Andrea! _The car speeds ahead, leaving Jesse behind in a wake of fear. He knows exactly where the car is going.

_Andrea… Oh my God, I have to save her! She needs me. Todd is going to kill her!_

He slams on the brakes an another round of blood-curdling shrieks erupts behind him, causing his stomach to turn. The walls of his car were closing in. His breathing speeds up until the street lights fade. There was a panting sound behind him; someone was in the car. Jesse screams and slams his foot on the accelerator. The car shoots forward, swerves quickly to the left.

White.  
>Black.<br>Red.

The sound of grinding metal, the stench of burning rubber, the paroxysm of snapping bones. Jesse's entire head feels warm, moist, dense. Looking around, there is a blinding light, consuming his entire vision. And there she is, _Andrea_, stretching out her arms.

_Why?  
><em>_Why didn't you save me..._

_She is here to take me. This is it. I will be with her now. _

The last drops of Jesse's consciousness slip from his head.

* * *

><p>Phoebe paces back and forth. Ethan had left over an hour ago. Usually, he called as soon as he arrived at the store to ask what it is he went there for. <em>For all the times I snapped at him for forgetting, I wish I could take it all back.<em>

_I was too harsh on him, _Phoebe thought. _I love him more than I have ever loved anybody. And I'm carrying his child. Isn't that what the American Dream is?_

She pauses in the middle of the living room floor and moves to the window. There is no movement out on the street, save for the dozen mosquitos dancing beneath the street lights. Despite the muggy, late-summer atmosphere outside, Phoebe longed for fresh air, not the artificial crap she breathed at home and at work. She cracks the window slightly, then opens it up as wide as she can. The breeze blows across her face, stirring her hair. Scents of faint barbecue smoke, bug spray, and distant rain intertwine within her nostrils.

The wails of a siren drift towards her from some accident far away. Phoebe listens to their sweet cacophony for a few minutes, relishing in their sweet-and-sour monotony. But then it hits her. _That's not Ethan, is it? _Her hormones had turned her casual worries into petrifying phobias, hence the dinner meltdown. She listens closer and picks up on the distinctive chirps of a speeding ambulance. Without thinking, she whips out her messages, no missed calls, no voicemails. _Maybe he's stuck in traffic. Behind the accident. _All that thought did was mask Phoebe's deep-seeded fear. She taps her foot swiftly, swivels around on her heel, trying to find something to occupy her time.

Absent-mindedly, she taps a few notes of _Solfeggietto _on her baby grand. A smile spreads across her face and she looks down to her gently sloping belly. _I wanna teach my baby to play. _Phoebe had given up during college so she could focus on her studies: a decision she frequently lamented. She pauses, pressing a diminished chord on the keyboard.

_Screw this, I'm calling him. He's my husband, I have to make sure he's alright. _She whips out her phone and quickly dials Ethan's number. One ring. Two. Three. Four.

_Hello. You've reached the cell number of Ethan Hawthorne of St. Louis. Please leave a message. Have a nice day. _

"Hey, baby, it's me. Just calling to see if you're alright; there's been an accident not far from home, I was wondering if you, um, got stuck in traffic on your way home from the store or whatever. Anyway, if you can, gimme a call back. Hurry home! I love you, hon. Bye!" Phoebe's last word hangs in the air, cloaking her fear.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Half an hour, she didn't know. A mosquito whizzes by her ear, the harsh shriek of its wings startling her. As Phoebe stands to close the window, her phone chimes. _Thank God, it must be Ethan. _She pulls it out, but does not recognize the number. It's a St. Louis area code, but the rest is unfamiliar. Her stomach shifts uneasily: or maybe it was the baby squirming. Either way, Phoebe prepares herself for the worst as she answers the call.

"Is this Mrs. Phoebe Hawthorne?"

_God, please, no._ She chokes back burning bile as it crawls up her throat. She knows what this call is_. _Per human nature, Phoebe's thoughts jump to the worst case scenario. _He's likely in the CCU, hooked up on life support, internally bleeding to death._

"Yes, it is. May I ask who's calling?" She puts on her most chipper, smiling voice and waits for the response with her heart sitting in her gut like a hundred pound weight.

"My name is Anne, I work for the Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis. I'm calling because your husband, Ethan Hawthorne, just arrived at the ER via ambulance and is in critical condition. He was in an automobile crash. I believe it is best that you come to the hospital as soon as possible. Do you need an ambulance to pick you up?"

A long pause. Phoebe feels the room spin around her, her brain rapidly flying between scenarios, each of which ended in Ethan's death. The beginnings of a tear gather in the corner of her eye and she allows it to fall pitifully to the hardwood floor with a deafening splash.

"I'll be there as soon as possible." Her voice is broken into thin fragments, mere threads like a shredded spider web. All her power has left her. Without so much as a thought or even a glance to make sure the lights were off, Phoebe bolts out of the house and into her car. Before she starts the ignition, she stares briefly at the wheel, then pounds it furiously with her hands, hoping the jarring action would relieve her fear.

It does not.

The tires scream as Phoebe races out of the driveway.

_I'm coming for you, Ethan. I love you. I won't let you leave me. _


	12. Chapter 12

Hey everybody! Sorry it's been a while, but I was super busy finishing up school and preparing to turn around for a long summer trip! Anyway, I think I'll finally have some time to knock out a couple more chapters before my summer classes start. As always, thanks so much for your continued support. You guys are what makes writing FanFiction worth it!

~YeahScience

* * *

><p>Phoebe had spent countless hours in hospitals the past eight years. But today, the moment the harsh beams of artificial light reach her eyes, she feels removed. Her body moves but her mind wanders. Lying in front of her, draped in tubes, rigid, caked with blood, is her husband. EMTs and trauma nurses swarm around him in what Phoebe fears is a feeble attempt to save his life.<p>

In her panicked mind, there is no way to save Ethan. Ethan Hawthorne is dead. This man in the bed before her is not her husband. This man is mangled, contorted, sliced into ribbons. Blood is pooling under the skin of his face, making him look purple and swollen. A large section of hair is matted down, gelled with blood. Phoebe knows what this means.

Blood surges through Phoebe's ears and dampens the sounds of the trauma bay. Inside her, the infant wriggles. For the first time in her life, a motherly instinct kicks in: the instinct to lie in order to shield your young. _Baby, your daddy's gonna be alright. _But the tears betray her. One at first, a second following closely on its salty tracks, and then her eyes give in. She shudders, paralyzed. After all the years of medical school, the cadavers, the stifled sobs of parents in adjacent exam rooms… nothing could have hardened her for the reality bleeding out in front of her.

"Ma'am. Ma'am!"

There is an intern in her peripheral vision but Phoebe does not turn her head. She stares forward. For what, she is not sure.

"You have to move. You can't be here. Please, go to the lobby." The orders are direct: firm, but not hostile. The intern waits for a response, eyebrows raised as his gaze shoots rapidly between Phoebe and her husband. He puts a gloved hand on her shoulder. She feels the weight but not the touch.

"Ethan." Phoebe only manages to speak one word, and it escapes her mouth as naught but a whisper, easily lost in the chaos of the emergency room.

"I'm sorry?"

Finally, Phoebe's mind finds her body. The world, which had been a nonsensical blur of light blue, red, and white, snaps into focus. In an instant, the repressed overwhelmingness finds a way out.

"MY HUSBAND!" The once docile Phoebe finds herself in an almost animalistic position: leaning forward, teeth snarling, fists clenched in taught fists. A few yards away, the receptionist at the emergency room desk jumps and glances at the intimidating figure who was a nonthreatening woman but a few seconds ago. In response, the intern forcibly turns her around via her shoulders, guiding her out through the jungle of tubes and starchy curtains.

Phoebe fights the whole way, whipping her head about, trying to get a look at her supine husband. The secretary abandons her post to guide Phoebe away from the scene. Phoebe screams, prompting even more tears to erupt from her tired eyes. Her fingernails dig into the palms of her hands, elbows threaten to bury themselves into hospital staffs' ribs. _No, Ethan, this can't be happening._

Eventually, after half a minute of stalemate before the door, the hysteric Phoebe gives in. She stumbles through the double doors. The frigid metal brushes against her forearm, burning her and raising goosebumps across her body. Before the doors sway closed, she catches a glimpse of her husband's bed. His right hand twitches.

* * *

><p>1:13 in the emergency room. Phoebe sits awkwardly in the waiting room chair. The baby just won't let her get comfortable. She turns her head to watch the beads of condensation slide erratically down her cup of ice water. Sleep is stalking the edge of her consciousness, but her devoted resolve keeps it at bay. Pulling an old trick from her all-night college studying years, she submerges her fingertips in the water and transfers a few icy drops to her wrist. The freezing jolt pulls her from the sleep deprived haze. But not for long. Her head drifts forward.<p>

When she snaps it back up, she's home, on the couch. Her belly is shrunken, not visible. She sits on her hips with her legs splayed out on her right, chin resting in her hand. Ethan is on the other couch, laying completely prone on the love seat. His innocent, beautiful face shines with youth. _He's just as gorgeous as the day I married him. _

"What do you think of Emma?" She raises one eyebrow, almost seductively and Ethan flashes his perfect smile. He shifts so he is laying on his side.

"Not bad. What if it's a boy?" The cheeky grin stays on his face. From this angle, the sunlight hits his brilliant blue eyes perfectly, and they shine like a bowl of crystals. Swarming in her new pregnancy hormones, Phoebe practically tears up from the beauty of the scene. _I love this boy. I love him with every fiber of my being. And I will continue to do so for the rest of my life. _

"I kind of like the classic names," Ethan pitches in. _He sure is a slap in the face to the unopinonated husband archetype._

Phoebe pauses for a second, searching for the perfect name. _Because it has to be perfect. __Like Ethan. _"Walter?"

Something changes in Ethan's face. Despite the abundant light from the window, there's a shadow or grayness to his complexion. The smile fades and the room loses its radiance. His eyes drift.

Phoebe scrunches up her mouth. "Don't like that one, huh?" The fragmented question hangs in the air for a moment as it floats into Ethan's head. After a few seconds, he meets her gaze.

"What? Mr. W- Walter? Uh, no. Not that one." Another winning smile.

"Did you know someone named Walter? Was he a prick or something?" Ethan had his secrets; Phoebe had figured that out from the moment they first met. But she let him keep them, as they were _his _and not _theirs_.

Ethan scratches the back of his head. _It's getting shaggy. He should get it cut. _"You could say that."

"I love you, by the way." The statement was unexpected, but certainly not unappreciated. The deepest part of Phoebe's heart warms. She returns his beautiful smile.

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Hawthorne?" A woman nurse calls out for Phoebe. The expression on her face is impossible to read.<p>

The daydream was over. Back to the nightmare.

Phoebe tries to stand as quick as she can, though her back screams in protest. Half her mind tells her that Ethan is alive and well. The other half tells her that he is dead. There is no middle ground.

"Your husband is alive. He's badly injured, but stable. Relax." Th

The warmth of comforted resolve flows down Phoebe. _This is the most relaxed I've been in 12 hours. _

"We've moved him to the ICU for tonight. He's got some broken bones we'll need to set, and he's got 23 stitches so far. There's some minor bruising to his lung, so he's been intubated. He looks much worse for the wear. He should recover fully with time. All things considered, he's a lucky man."

Phoebe barely manages to contain herself. For the third or forth time today tears accumulate on her eyelashes. But she maintains her composure in spite of the elation.

"Thank you." She chokes out. "So he's okay?"

"Yes, but, Mrs. Hawthorne-"

"Phoebe, please." Through her glassy vision, Phoebe misses the pained look on the nurse's face.

"_Phoebe._"A pause and her heart drops. "There's something I have to mention."


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: This chapter is going to have some language in it and will also get pretty dark. Just trying to keep it real. Enjoy and thanks for reading! Please leave a review if you wish.

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><p>The statement hangs in the air.<p>

_"There's something I have to mention."_

_That could mean anything. God, please let him be okay. _

"Phoebe," the nurse says, stretching out a hand to lay on Phoebe's shoulder. She has tears in her eyes as she waits for the news that is certain to be bad. A sob escapes her mouth prematurely.

"Your husband was behaving very strangely when he came in tonight. We performed a drug test on him. He was under the influence of methamphetamine. Very, very strong methamphetamine. And since he was involved in a serious car crash, we have to report this to the police."

Phoebe understands perfectly, but cannot process the information. It is flying around her, almost taunting her. _Ethan… meth? There's no way. That _cannot _be true. _

"I'm sorry- what? Are you absolutely positive? Ethan has _never _done a single drug. I simply can't believe this. Let me speak with the supervising physician. This can't be right. I know him." With each sentence, Phoebe's confidence wears away. Hysteria takes over. The hospital swims around her, liquid and tumultuous. _The secrets. I knew he had secrets._

"Phoebe, calm down."

"Ethan is not a drug user. NO! This is wrong! WRONG!"

The physician has his hands on Phoebe's shoulders now, which she attempts violently to shake off. It's no use; he's too strong, and he's guided her into their curtained nook of the ER.

"Ma'am, this man is absolutely under the influence of methamphetamine. _Someone get me the results from lab._" A paper is exchanged between scrub-wearing individuals until it reaches the doctor. He leans forward to show Phoebe what she doesn't want to see. But she needs to.

"I'm sorry, but the number's don't lie. And going by the severity of his symptoms for the amount he inhaled, this is the strongest form of methamphetamine I've ever seen. The police have to be notified because of the crash. Ma'am, are you listening? I need to know that you understand."

Phoebe stares, but her eyes are not blank. Her lip is trembling with pure anger at the supine figure in front of her, writhing erratically amongst the tubes and gauze and splints. _This isn't Ethan. Ethan was never real. Whoever this piece of shit is, I need to know. And you, _she addresses herself. _You stupid fool, you loved him. You let _him _love _you. _And look where that got both of you._

Jesse mumbles, coughs, then sighs. His nurse stops taking his pulse and leans in to hear the faint whispers coming from her patient's mouth. They are just as weak as he is.

"Ma'am, he keeps repeating the word 'call', do you know what that means?" The nurse turns her ear back to Jesse and continues to listen.

Phoebe approaches, each step more deliberate and cold than the previous. She bends stiffly over her husband, yet keeps a noticeable difference between their faces. Jesse splutters a little, twitches his fingers, and manages a few more sounds.

"Call Saul," Phoebe repeats, confusion mixing with anger in her stressed voice. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jesse stares into her eyes as if trying to convey some sort of meaning. His pupils are huge, empty discs, ravenously consuming all light and giving none back. Disgust rises like bile in Phoebe's throat. _How could I have loved this monster? How can I have his child? _

"What are you saying, you animal?" Ironically enough, Phoebe is playing the part of the animal. She is practically growling and baring her teeth at the decrepit remains of her once-loving husband. His eyes open even wider, revealing the fleshy pink membranes, and Phoebe takes a step back. Jesse is beginning to shake, his head darting side to side.

"CALL SAUL! CALL SAUL! CALL SAUL!" He shrieks with all the power in his lungs, an inhuman and tortured sound that draws tears into Phoebe's eyes. _This can't be Ethan. This is the devil. _Nurses flock over to his bed, drawing the curtains around him. Someone is putting something in his IV, another is fishing through a drawer. A third approaches with large velcro straps. A part of Phoebe's brain probes, attempting to find some modicum of love or pity for the suffering creature in front of her. There is none.

"Ma'am, I think you should leave," a nurse says brusquely in passing. He runs to a corner of the bed and begins to bind Jesse to it with the straps. His screaming has now deteriorated into unintelligible moaning. Patients, even the most critical, are beginning to look around. Without any shame, or a look back, she leaves.

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><p>In the waiting room, Marie sips on a paper cup of water. The nurses brought her a small sandwich, which she picks at only for the baby's sake. By now, all of the other people in the room have noticed that she is related to the crazy man in the back. <em>By the looks of her, she's probably his pregnant wife. God, what is she gonna do? He sounds like a drug addict. Is she? What do you think she's gonna do with that baby?<em>

_I can hear you, assholes. And yes, I am married to that man. _She turns her cheek to stare at the receptionist. There are light bags under her eyes, though she answers the phone with trained precision upon its ring, almost Pavlovian. _What has she seen? Ours can't be the most tragic case, can it? _

_You know what, it can. I know it is. It's tragic because he is going to live, I'm going to live, and this baby is going to live. _

Phoebe tastes metal in her mouth. She was biting her tongue.

As she stands, Phoebe moves her lips, giving a false excuse for her leaving that is lost in the dull buzz and drowned sobs of the ER. The receptionist's eyes follow her conspicuously all the way to the restroom. _Keep staring._

In the restroom, Phoebe cups her hands under the lukewarm water. The liquid runs over her parched hands as she stares at the reflection in the mirror. She whips the faucet's handle all the way to freezing cold. It burns her, but she cups her hands and takes a sip. It comes out pink and swirls down the drain. Phoebe watches.

A woman exits one of the stalls. Tears have formed sleek, shiny stripes down her cheeks and her eyes are red. Like Phoebe, she takes a sip of the tap water and splashes her face. Instead of looking up and drying off her face, she hangs her head over the sink. Phoebe doesn't even try to hide the fact that she is staring; she's past that point. Instead, she studies the woman. Petite, blonde, very short hair. She's wearing no makeup.

The woman coughs and reaches for a paper towel to dab at her eyes. It's no use, because she begins to weep again. The woman coughs a second time, but Phoebe pauses for a moment. _It sounded like she said 'Brock.'_

"Brock…" She doubles over the sink. Phoebe feels the baby kick, almost as though nudging her to action. She reaches out to put a hand on the woman's shoulder, but she stops. _What she needs right now is privacy. I'm in no condition to offer advice, and she's in no condition to receive it._

Crystals of ice threaten to stop Phoebe's heart, but she turns to leave anyway. She grabs the handle to the door and its relentlessly cold metal causes her skin to erupt in goosebumps. One last time she hesitates at the mournful yet stifled sobs of the woman, but leaves her be.

Phoebe drags her feet to Ethan's bed. There is reluctance, but an underlying steadfastness keeps her moving until, at long last, she is at his bedside. He tremors in his drug-induced delirium when their eyes meet. She barely restrains her impulse to smack him. Instead, she maintains eye contact and calls coolly to the nurse.

"Please, give us five minutes alone."

She doesn't ask any questions, just leaves them. The curtain swings behind her.

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><p>Hello again, everybody. So, as a writer, I feel this story has run its course. If I were to continue it any further, it would drag out. Of course, in the next couple chapters, I'll tie up some loose ends. Thank you all so much for all the excellent support over the years. Please leave a comment if you agree or disagree with me closing the book on <em>Legacy.<em> Again, thanks a ton! Have an A-1 day. ~YeahScience


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